


Shackle Me (I Find it Freeing)

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe- Foster Care, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, TW: Domestic Abuse, alexander pierce is a dick, freshman peter parker is colin creevey, natasha loves her boys but they all need a swift kick in the dick, steve and bucky being cute kids, tw: dissociation, tw: minor mentions of depression/self harm/suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2151645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes grew up as brothers, living together under the same roof in Sarah Roger's foster home for boys. But after Sarah died, Bucky and Steve were separated into to completely different worlds. Years later, they meet again, but Bucky can't seem to remember his childhood best friend, or even himself. Can Steve save him before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

_1999_

There were four other boys in his “new house”, and James liked none of them.

One, the biggest and meanest, was named James as well. Because he was there first he got to keep his name and James had to make do with being James B. The day Jame's arrived the two Jameses had gotten into a fight that resulted in a tooth being lost far before it was meant to be. James poked at the hole in his mouth with his tongue at the unfamiliar dinner table with too many boys and refused to eat his chicken nuggets.

He acted brave and tough in front of the other kids, because he was the littlest and they’d pick on him if he seemed like a crybaby, but alone in his bunk bed that smelled like the wrong brand of laundry detergent he couldn’t help crying.

He’d asked one of the nicer, younger ladies at the hospital when he could see his mommy, but the woman had only smiled sadly and patted his head. James _hated_ it when grown-ups did that, treated him like he didn’t know anything. He was three, they shouldn’t be treating him like a _baby_. After the funeral, after being sent away to the the “new house”, he sort of wished there were still people to shelter him like that. People who cared enough to spare him the truth.

The lady at his “new house” did care about him, he was pretty sure. She always wore long dresses with flowers on them. She smelled like flowers too. Her hair was blonde, like sunlight, and if James was very, _very_ good she’d let him brush it out for her. His mommy’s hair had been black, not blonde, but when he closed his eyes and pressed his face too the lady’s soft hair he could play a game of pretend. She was the only good thing about his “new house”.

Well, one of the only two good things. The other one was the baby. It was a he-baby, but James never considered him as one of the boys of the house. He was little and soft, and he never called James mean names. Of course he _couldn’t_ , being a baby and all, but James thought he wouldn’t call him names even if he was able to talk.

One day the lady had to go outside to tell the other boys (the _stupid_ , not baby ones) to stop messing around. James was in the kitchen drawing a picture of him and his mommy and the lady, and the baby was in his little bouncy chair hanging from the ceiling in the corner.

“James B,” the lady had said, and he had snapped to attention. The lady was nice, but she didn’t tolerate rudeness. “Can you watch him-” she pointed at the baby- “while I’m outside?”

James had been stunned. It was far too much responsibility for his tiny hands, but he nodded anyway. He couldn’t disappoint the lady.

She was out of the room for exactly three spins of the thin hand on the clock. After one spin, the baby started crying. James clambered down from the table and tugged him out of the chair, perhaps a little too roughly, then plopped down onto the floor. The baby was tinier than a doll, but thin and crooked and too pale, the way a doll would never be . When he cried it looked sorta hard for him to breathe. James rocked him, whispering, “Shh baby. It’s okay. ‘M not gonna let anyone hurt ya,” and after another spin of the thin hand the baby was giggling and pulling on locks of James’ thick hair. James usually didn’t like people touching his hair, but it was sorta alright when the baby did it, he thought.

The lady had come back just as the baby was hugging onto James’ neck, making happy baby noises, and from that day on he was James’ responsibility.

 

_2001_

“One… two… fou- no... _THREE_! Ready or not here I come!” Stevie yelled in his tiny little voice, and Bucky tried not to giggle from his hiding spot up in the biggest tree in the yard. Miss Sarah had told Stevie that he was ‘positutely Not Allowed to climb trees, so this was perfect. Stevie sometimes threw tantrums about Bucky getting to do things he wasn’t allowed to, but Bucky would just poke him in the chest and remind him that he was bigger _and_ older.

He never talked to Stevie about the real reason that Bucky and the other boys were allowed to do things he couldn’t. Miss Sarah had explained it to Bucky the night Stevie had an asthma attack so bad that he needed a weird alien space mask to breathe. Stevie was just too delicate. He was sick, and he was always gonna be sick, no matter what.

Bucky didn’t want Stevie to be sick no matter what. Stevie was better than a brother, because he was his best friend too, even if he was littler. He’d given Bucky his name, back when he’d been a baby and couldn’t make his baby mouth make the “J” sound. There were never any other Buckys in Miss Sarah’s house. Stevie had made him special.

“ _BUCKYYY_ ,” Stevie yelled, and the boy looked down to see Steve standing under the tree, hands on hips, looking ‘positively furious. “You’re _cheating_. You can’t climb.”

“Ya found me, didn’t ya?” Bucky countered with a grin, swinging out the the tree and landing with his face inches away from Stevie’s.

The littler boy squeaked and stepped back, then giggled. “Don’t _do_ that. ‘S dangerous, ma says.”

Bucky grinned, tweaking his nose, which made Stevie giggle even more. “Not for me. Nothing can hurt me.”

“But _ma_ -”

Bucky put his hand over Stevie’s mouth, not even pulling it away when he licked it. “I know somethin’ your ma doesn’t.”

This seemed to be a completely ridiculous idea to Stevie. “Ma knows everything,” he mumbled around Bucky’s hand. Bucky released him, more for fear of him having a hard time breathing than anything else.  

“Not this.” Bucky knelt in front of Stevie, smiling a little. “Lemme see your hand.”

“Why d-?”

“Just lemme see it, alright?”

Obediently Stevie stretched out his hand, and Bucky leaned in so that the tips of his tiny fingers brushed over his forehead.

“What your ma doesn’t know… is that you’re _magic_.”

Stevie gaped at him. “I’m _what_?”  

Bucky nodded solemnly. “Magic. ‘M the only one who knows. When you were just barely born I held you in my arms and you started glowing. I felt all warm ‘n tingly, even after I put you down. Then that evening James punched me in the nose, hard as he could, but I couldn’t feel no pain at all, and there weren’t even any bruises. You made me a superhero.”

Stevie frowned, not looking very convinced, pulling his hands away from Bucky’s face shyly. “But what about when you jumped off the swing and broke your thumb?”

Dangit. Stevie was getting too smart. Bucky shrugged, speaking like it was obvious, “I can decide when I actually get hurt. I let it happen that time so no one would get ‘spicious of the powers you gave me.”

Stevie slowly nodded, the confused fog in his eyes clearing. “Makes sense…”

He looked down at his hands, bony and delicate, just like Miss Sarah warned. Bucky held them so very gently, careful not to hurt them. “You’re magic, Stevie. You made me special.”

Steve shook his head in wonder, still staring at his hands like he’d never noticed them before.

 

2003

“Everyone,” Stevie announced, clambering up onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Some of you may already know this, but today is my first day of school.”

Tommy, the new oldest boy, rolled his eyes. “How could we forget, the little shit’s been reminding us all-”

Bucky cut him off with a swift stomp on his foot. Tommy may have been the oldest, but Bucky had been living in Miss Sarah’s house the longest. Miss Sarah trusted him best, and since she was stuck in bed with a little cold it was Bucky’s job to keep all the boys who didn’t know their place yet in line.

“Use that word again and I’ll wash that mouth out with soap, Tommy Smith.” He turned back to Stevie, who was looking a little nervous up on his stool. “Go on, Stevie. What about your first day of school?”

Stevie puffed out his narrow chest as much as he could. His backpack was far too big on him, making him look like a skinny blonde turtle. Along with the slacks Miss Sarah had ironed for him the night before, before her cough got too bad, he was wearing his favorite hand-me-down t-shirt from Bucky. The shirt was so oversized that Miss Sarah had to safety pin the collar to stop it from falling off of his bony shoulders, despite the fact that it had been too small for Bucky when he was Stevie’s age, but Stevie had insisted that he just _had_ to wear it.

“Well…. Because ‘m five now, and going to school... I have decided not to be Stevie.”

Bucky frowned up at Stevie, or… Not-Stevie, he supposed. None of the other boys seemed to care about what Not-Stevie was saying, even though this was major, earth-shattering  news. “Why?”

Not-Stevie stuck out his tongue at him, crossing his stick arms. “Because Stevie’s a _baby_ name, obviously. I’m not a baby.” He jerked his thumb at the backpack, offering it as proof. “I’m gonna be Steven.”

 _Steven_? Bucky couldn’t understand why Not-Stevie would want to be _Steven_. He wasn’t big enough for Steven. Bucky was pretty sure there was a rule saying boys as little as Not-Stevie couldn’t be Stevens.

“I don’t know…” Bucky murmured, frowning. He had to think fast to save his best friend from the awful fate of Steven-ness. “I heard there’s already a Steven in your class. What about… just Steve?”

It was still too grown up for the boy on the stool, but at least it wasn’t Steven. Just-Steve-Not-Stevie beamed, just as happy for Bucky to make Stevie into Steve as Bucky had been when Steve had rescued him for being just another James.

 

_2005_

“Steve!” Bucky yelled, chasing after him through the park. “Don’t run so fast, you’ll have an attack!” He could hear Steve crying, and that made him run faster. Steve never cried, even when he broke his wrist the previous spring.  

He finally caught up to him next to the big willow tree on the hill where Sarah used to take them on picnics when the weather was nice and her cough wasn’t too bad. Now it was snowing. however, and Bucky made sure to always take out the trash before Steve woke up, so he wouldn’t see the bloody tissues in her waste basket.

Steve’s breathing was quick and broken. Bucky helped him fumble his inhaler out of his pocket and take a few puffs. He’d ran out of the house so fast he’d forgotten his gloves, and the tips of his fingers were almost blue. Bucky pulled off his own gloves, easing Steve’s hands into them. They had a hole in the thumb that Sarah’s hands were too shaky to patch up, but they were better than nothing.

Bucky didn’t even have to look at Steve’s face to know a bruise was already forming. Wyatt was the meanest of all the boys who had ever stayed in Sarah’s house. Maybe he wouldn’t have ever noticed Steve if he’d just kept his head down, but Wyatt kicked stray dogs and hit the girls who were littler than him in school, and Steve couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Bucky wrapped him in a hug, pressing his nose into his blond hair.

“I wish you’d just ignore him,” he whispered.

“He said ma’s gonna die,” Steve replied.

Bucky was silent.

 

_Spring 2006_

The tombstone said:

“Sarah Rogers 1978-2006.

Lord, forgive me my trasspasses and protect my children.”

 

Steve hugged Bucky, and Bucky wished they didn’t bring flowers to funerals.

They smelled too much like her.

 

_Summer 2006_

Alexander Pierce came to take Bucky away. He didn’t want Steve to come with.

 

 


	2. Divided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, here's a warning. If you find dissociation or abuse triggering DO NOT CONTINUE READING.  
> Bucky's pretty screwed up, and Pierce is the biggest fucking dick ever, but I promise that everything will be okay eventually.

“Hey Doc?” Steve yelled, hopping through the house as he made a gallant attempt to put on his shoes while eating a piece of toast. “Have you seen my sketch book??”

Dr. Abraham Erskine, Steve’s adoptive father, poked his head out of the kitchen. His hair, every day more gray than black, was frazzled, sticking up everywhere, and he wore the pink apron Steve had made him as a joke in Home-Ec over his work clothes.

“Sketch book?” Erskine mumbled, his German accent even thicker than usual without his morning coffee. He looked around groggily, like the book might appear out of thin air if he squinted enough. “No… I have not seen it…”

Steve chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Doc?”

“Hmm?”

“You have flour in your hair.”

Erskine blinked, then ran his hand through his hair. It came away covered in powdery whiteness. “Now how did that happen…?”

Steve shook his head, pushing past the man to where a batch of pancakes was burning on the stove. Dr. Erskine may have been a brilliant scientist, but he was neither a morning person nor a cook. Rather than making an attempt to save the pancakes, Steve just dumped them into the trash.

A cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal later, Erskine was able to recall that the book was in the laundry room.

“I am sorry that I burnt the pancakes,” he called as Steve went to retrieve it, shaking his head. “I wanted for you to have a good breakfast before your first day.”  

Steve smiled, shaking his head as he put the book into his school bag. “Doc, it’s just school. It’s not like I haven’t been going there for two years already.”

“Yes, that is true. But... it is junior year, Steven. This is when we have to start really thinking about _where_ you are going.”

Steve groaned exaggeratedly. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, go into the military, but Erskine insisted that he should go to college first.

“You are a smart boy, Steven,” Erskine stated in his no-nonsense voice. “I do not want to see you become just another grunt with a gun.”

“I won’t, Doc. Promise.” He swung his bag over one broad shoulder then walked to Erskine, giving him a one armed hug. The older man grumbled good naturedly, then shoved him away.

“Oh, get out of here, you fool. Go to class, make me proud.”

Steve grinned, nodding, and headed for the door. “Sir yessir. See you after school.”

He jogged out into the street to the sounds of Erskine laughing and cursing his name, and everything inside of him was light and happiness.

 

* * *

 

The alarm had been blaring its shrill tones for nearly ten minutes, but _Son_ hadn’t moved to turn it off. The medication that brought the numbness he needed twice a day for a stump that used to have an arm had worn off, and the pain had woken him long before the irritating clock.

In order to make the sound stop, _Son_ knew he’d have to stand, but he wasn’t sure if his legs were real today. Had they been lost with his arm…?

He couldn’t remember. There was a calender on his wall with a big shaky X on every block until the one in which handwriting that might have been his read ‘FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL’.

Was it time to return to school already? _Son_ couldn’t recall what he’d done over the summer.

No, wait. He could remember white hospital rooms and stitches and hours counting ceiling tiles. For some reason, those things made him sad. It was over the loss of his arm, he told himself. Thinking about that always made him sad. But when had he last thought about the arm at all…?

Though he didn’t want to look at the place where his legs had once been, he made himself sit up, and then stand. His legs seemed to be supporting him, but he could just be dreaming, of course…

“ _James_!” yelled a voice from below, and he snapped to attention, back ramrod straight. Right, he was James, _Son_ remembered. He’d always been James, hadn’t he?

“ _JAMES PIERCE YOU GET YOUR LAZY FUCKING ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW_.”

Mechanically, James walked down to the kitchen, where Alexander Pierce was sitting at the table in his suit. He had not been given permission to dress, only to come down immediately, so he stood in the middle of the cold kitchen dressed in only his boxers and the bandages around the stump. On instinct, he assumed parade rest, but he reeled when there was no left hand to grab.

Pierce snorted when he saw the moment of weakness, standing and prowling around him. James stayed as still as he could.

“It’s your own damn fault you know,” Pierce growled. He grabbed the stump roughly and Bucky drew in a sharp breath through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He wanted to ask for his medication, but he stayed silent. If he asked, Pierce might get angry and refuse to give it to him. “If you hadn’t been such a fucking idiot, it never would’ve happened.”

Had it been James’ fault? He couldn’t remember. All there was was the screaming of metal and then... nothing. And then days of white walls and pain. How many days?

“I’m sorry, Father,” James murmured, staring fixedly at the far wall. “I was stupid.”

“Damn right you were stupid.” Pierce shook his head, walking away. “Do you know what’s happening today?”

“School,” James murmured, remembering the calendar.

“School indeed. You’ve been pulled back a year, you know that? Your stupid stunt not only costed you your arm, but now you’re being held back with the other mistakes. The other _freaks_.”

Pulled back? What grade had he been in before? He couldn’t remember. “I’m sorry, Father.”

“‘I’m sorry, Father’,” Pierce mocked, his voice high and whiny. “Not only are you costing me a fortune in medical bills, but now I have to deal with another fucking year of high school. When are you going to go out and start making some money, James? Should I just pull you out altogether? You don’t need a high school diploma to get plenty of jobs. Maybe I’ll just sell you to the highest bidder. Gotta be someone who could make use of a stupid cripple.”  

“I made a mistake,” James whispered, shaking from the pain, from trying to keep still.

“A _mistake?_ Fucking hell boy, look at you. You’re broken now. All you’ve got is a pretty mouth and whatever’s under those pants.”

He shook his head in disgust, then turned to the cabinet. James wanted to breathe a sigh of relief as Pierce pulled out the bottle of pills, but he didn’t dare, lest they be taken away.

Pierce shook three white tablets onto James' remaining palm, and he swallowed them dry. Within a minute the numbness was back, the pain was gone. Everything was gone, except Pierce, except _Father_ , who took the pain away.

“Good boy,” Pierce hummed when James’ eyes fogged over completely. He tucked a strand of shoulder-length hair behind James’ ear, smiling softly. “Go get dressed, and I’ll drive you to school. We’ll see if it’s worth it to keep you in, hm?”

James nodded calmly, and Pierce practically beamed.

Nothing hurt, so James’ cared about nothing.

 

* * *

 

“Now would you _look_ what the cat dragged in!” Clint Barton crowed, alerting not only Steve’s ragtag gaggle of friends, but the whole damn school that he had, indeed, arrived.

Natasha was the first run to run to him, wrapping him in a hug. Steve smiled into her hair, holding her tightly, breathing in her scent.

“I missed you, you idiot,” Nat laughed, pulling away and punching his arm. “I told you to call me, didn’t I?”

“I _did_.” Steve chuckled, rolling his eyes. “But in case you missed the part where you were in _Siberia_ …”

“Oh shut up.” She laughed, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the alcove under the stairs that had been been their spot since freshman year.

He couldn’t help noticing that she had reacquired the smallest hint of her native Russian accent during the summer, and he had to admit, it suited her. “When did you-” he began, but he was cut off by Sam Wilson slinging an arm around his shoulder.

“My oh my, Steven Rogers, golden boy of New York, back at last.”

Steve rolled his eyes, though he made no attempt to shake the younger boy’s arm off. “Don’t call me that, I’m not golden.”

“Naw,” said a drawling voice, and Steve spun to see none other than Tony Stark himself standing on the stairs over them. “He’s more of a mustard, I’d say.”

For a moment, the two glared at each other, then Steve broke into a grin. “You bastard.”

“Dick.” Tony smirked jumping the last few steps and sitting down next to Bruce, who didn’t seem to realize any of them were there.

Nat rolled her eyes. “Oh no, it's the Steve/Tony the hate-mance epic, part three.”

Tony stuck his tongue out her, like the very mature person he was. “Shut up, Romanov. You’re just jealous that Roger’s mine.” 

“Piss off, Stark, I’m not anyone’s,” Steve snapped without any venom, sitting down and leaning his back against the familiar bricks of the alcove.

“Mmhmm.” Clint smirked, laying his head in Natasha’s lap as she took her place next to him. “Look behind you.”

Steve looked, and his heart stuttered to a stop.

Wavy brown hair tied into ponytail with a red ribbon, dressed in a brown pencil skirt with matching blazer, holding her textbooks with a grace and refinement that belied the fact that she could pin any boy on the wrestling team with one hand behind her back, was Peggy Carter. Peggy Carter, the girl who Steve had been in love with since the first day of freshman year. Peggy Carter, who didn’t know he existed...

“You’re drooling,” Natasha whispered and Steve tore his eyes away.

Tony was snickering, Sam rolling his eyes, and Clint just looked smug. Even Bruce, who still hadn’t looked up from his AP Physics III textbook, had a tiny grin on his face. Steve felt his cheeks heating.

“Still sure you’re no one’s?” Tony quipped, and Steve slugged him in the arm.

“You _seriously_ need to ask her out, Steve,” Nat sighed, shaking her head. “While she’s still single.”

“Are you _kidding_?” Steve squawked, shaking his head vehemently. “She’d never go for me.”

“Maybe not in freshman year, when you were a skinny awkward thing,” Clint jumped in. “But now you’re a buff awkward thing, so you’re totally her type.”

“ _OF WHICH FAIR LADY ARE WE SPEAKING_?” boomed the unmistakable voice of Thor Odinson, and Steve’s slumped in mortification. Once Thor found out he still hadn’t managed to get over his crush on Peggy… well, the whole damn school would know.

“It’s nothing, Thor,” he managed to say before that evil glint in Nat’s eyes lead to his complete and utter social annihilation. “How was your summer?”

Thor immediately started regaling the tale of his trip to Australia with his family. He was completely delighted as he listed all of the things that had almost killed him. The conversation slid easily away from the dangerous topic of Steve’s love life and into the safe territory of various summer adventures.

Steve mostly listened, smiling softly around at the group. These were his friends, his team, and he’d missed them more than he could say. That summer had been the first that they had spent apart, and he was looking forward to the coming year of practical jokes, movie nights, and just… being with them.

Sometimes he forgot how lost he’d be without his friends, how empty the word would seem.

 

* * *

 

James was lost. He knew he was in a high school, but he couldn’t remember if it was the same one he had gone to last year. Pierce had handed him a schedule before he left, but James’ head felt like it had been filled with cotton, and the words were blurring on the page. He lifted his left hand to trace the line from PERIOD ONE to the subject, teacher, and room number. He could feel the paper under his hand, so why couldn’t he see his finger on the line?

Oh. Right. He lowered the stump.

_Phantom limb syndrome:_

_The perception of sensations, including pain, in a limb that has been amputated. People with this condition experience feelings in the limb as if it were still attached to their body. This is because the brain continues to receive messages from nerves that originally carried impulses from the missing limb._

He’d read that when he’d been near screaming from the pain of his arm being torn off all over again, but when had that happened…?

“Um… excuse moi?” said a voice, and James turned his head slowly to find the source of the irritating sound. It was a kid, tiny with the exception of his gelled hair, hardly over five feet. He didn’t look old enough to even be in the building. James’ glassy eyes drifted over him.

There was a sharp tugging on his shirt sleeve, the one with the stump in it, but he didn’t want to look down to see all of that negative space.

“I said _excuse me,_ ” the boy repeated.

“Fuck off.”

“See, I’d like to. I’d really, _really_ like to, because you’re all big and muscly and scary and you look like you’re stoned out of your ever loving mind, but the thing is, you’re blocking the door to my class.”

James looked over his shoulder. It took him a few moments to read the sign on the door he was leaning against.

“Dr. Conners… AP Biochemistry…” He frowned, looking from the door to the kid. “Are you sure this is your class?”

“Yes,” the kid sighed, his tone suggesting that he was used to people doubting him. “And I have to set up for Dr. Conners, so if you could…?”

Finally, James stepped to the side. Already he couldn’t recall what Dr. Conners taught. Who was Dr. Conners again?

He frowned down at the schedule. Pierce had given him the schedule, so it was important. It was real. When the numbness was there, Pierce was the only real thing.

“Um… hey, Muscly Stoner?”

“James.” The kid was annoying, he was trying to focus on this schedule.

“ _Oh_. Okay. James. I’m Peter. Do you like… need help?”

“No.” He turned away from the kid-- Peter-- hunching his shoulders.

“You look like you need help.” Peter tugged on his sleeve again, and James growled, low and deep in his throat, like an animal. Peter got the message pretty quick and backed the fuck off.

“Don’t touch it.”

“Okay. Okay, big guy. I won’t touch it. Do you need help finding a class? I’ve never seen you around, are you new?”

“You ask too many questions,” James rumbled.

“Yeah, get that a lot, actually.” Peter walked around so they were face to face. He held out a hand for the schedule, the only real thing. Peter was fake, the building he stood it was fake. All of it was a dream, except the schedule. He held it closer to himself, baring his teeth.

“...Alright. Not handing it over, I got that.” Peter spoke like one might to a lion about to attack. “Can you at least let me see it?”

Pierce had told James to show him that school was still a viable outlet. He needed to get to class for that, right? He took a deep breath, then gave Peter a peek at the schedule.

“Hmm… Alright, you’ve got American Lit first period. That’ll be up the stairs and to your right. There’s a massive American flag on the door, you can’t miss it.” Peter smiled softly, giving his undamaged shoulder a little pat. “Welcome to Marvel High, I guess. Look for me if you need some help again. Looks like we have fourth period Calc together.”

And then he was gone, into the room in which a subject James couldn’t remember was taught by a teacher whose name he couldn’t recall.

With the boy-- what was his name again?-- gone, the numbness returned like a tidal wave, but he could remember the directions. Up the stairs and to the right, American flag on the door. He couldn’t miss it.

He started walking.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, or my own soul. All of those belong to Marvel.  
> This work is unbeta'd, so any mistakes are completely my own and I apologize for that.  
> The rating of this work is T for now, but trust me, it'll go up.  
> As always, thank you for reading and I hope you have a super fabulous day in which you eat a thing you really like eating.  
> Kudos make me write faster!
> 
> I got the definition of phantom limb syndrome from NYU's website.


End file.
